


what would they say now (if they saw you in this place?)

by Anonymous



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: (noncon is not between daryl/rick), Blood As Lube, Episode: s02e08 Nebraska, Handcuffs, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rough Sex, Scars, Spit As Lube, The Greene Farm, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl scrambles to his feet while Shane clambers to his, looking like a walker with blood dripping down his chin and all over his shirt, a crazed energy in his eyes. This isn’t just going to end here, Daryl realizes, when he catches the look in Shane’s eyes. Shane’s gonna do much worse than just beat him up some, he’s got a look in his eyes that spells no good, so Daryl doesn't think, just trusts his own instincts and slings his crossbow over his shoulder and runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what would they say now (if they saw you in this place?)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is explicit and violent. Please review the tags before reading.  
> Set between 2x09 and 2x10.

            He’s itching for a fight, can feel the blood in his veins boiling, threatening to rush over him like a wave. He’s never been good at controlling his temper in the best of times, and this certainly isn’t the best of times anymore, not by a long shot.

 

            It’s losing Sophia. It makes him burn on the inside, hate and some other more painful feeling dragging his stomach down like an anchor until he can feel it, feel the weight in his guts. Hasn’t felt this shit since he was old enough to learn how to lock his feelings away, and now it’s like a jack in the fuckin’ box, spring loaded anger flying out everywhere. 

 

            It’s why he camps away from the group. So they don’t have to try and tiptoe around him, or be nice to him, or worse, tease and poke at him, tryin’ to get him to smile. Even Carol, with all the pain and sorrow she carries in her bony little shoulders, smiles when she sees him, always tryin’ to give him these little touches, like she’s making sure he’s okay.

 

            He hates it. Hates it even more that he doesn’t hate it; he _craves_ her gentle pats and nice words, but he ain’t weak, and if he’s lived the last 30 some odd years without someone pettin’ his head like a damn dog, then he can damn well live another 30 the same way.

 

            But it’s not the group that pissing him off; though they’re annoying as shit, even he knows he shouldn’t try to bite the hand that feeds. He can make it alone out there, sure, but he’ll make it longer with them having his back. It’s why wolves travel in packs, just nature doin’ its thing.

 

            It’s getting dark out, and cold too, nights growing longer and mornings coming earlier. Animals are going to start burrowing for the winter, which means less food. Daryl adds another stick to his small fire, pulling off the piece of half raw squirrel meat and popping it into his mouth, chewing at the stringy lean meat. He hates this too, the unsalted, bland taste of it. They’ve thought of a million ways to cook it already, but it all tastes the same. Carol’s been trying to come over and get him to eat some of the canned food, but he’d rather eat his own shoe than that nasty ass preservative-flavored shit they call candied peaches.

 

            A shadow pulls away from the group, a tall dark figure that’s silhouetted in the waning light. The hulking shoulders, cocksure steps are clear as pebbles in a river, no doubt which asshole it is that’s swaggering towards the outskirts of the small encampment and headed right towards Daryl.

 

            Daryl thinks about hiding. He could do it, sling his crossbow over his shoulder and take off for a moonlight stroll, walkers be damned. Those things are as dumb as squirrels, and slower too. He could climb a tree, a nice big oak or elm and just tie a rope around his waist so he doesn’t fall off the branches, and nap the whole night and day away. He could leave them here at the farm, in their perfect little slice of heaven, fuck it all, pack his shit and head out into the woods alone.

 

            Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to live on his own.

 

            But he can already hear the questions from the group popping up in his mind, Rick’s brows knitting together, always worrying, Shane calling him a dirty redneck traitor, Carol crying, Carl pulling some dumb kid shit and trawling out through the woods to go search for him. Something tugs at his stomach, and he thinks there’s a word for it, _guilt_ , same thing he felt knowing he hadn’t been fast enough to bust his brother from the roof of that building, same thing about not being able to find Sophia before she turned into walker meat.

 

_You’ve gotten soft, baby brother._

 

            He shakes Merle’s voice out of his head, gritting his teeth together and tasting dirt and a few strands of squirrel fur. Fuck Shane, for bein’ a dick. Fuck Rick, for losin’ them a bunch of guns. Fuck Carol, for not goin’ out and lookin’ for her own damn daughter. Fuck ‘em all.

 

            With a huff he climbs to his feet, wincing as he moves too fast and pulls on the stitches in his side. Whenever it healed, he’d have a nice big scar to add to his collection. He’d prefer that to the mon-stop pounding in his head, temple still aching from where the bullet from Andrea’s rifle had grazed him.

 

            Throwing the rest of the skinned squirrel into the pit, Daryl stomps out the fire underneath a heavy boot before turning and picking up his crossbow. Shane wants to come yell at him, fine, he can follow him out into the forest and they can have it out there. Do it like real men do, not like the dumb ass “talkin’” and “negotiatin’” that Rick does. That’s something that him and Shane have in common at least, that they aren’t afraid to let their fists talk instead of their mouths. Daryl’s never been good with words anyway.

 

            He can feel Shane’s eyes burnin’ a hole into his back but Daryl keeps walking, crossbow slung over his shoulder and flashlight in hand when he steps into tree line and out of sight.

 

            The woods at night were always dangerous, even before the world went to shit. There are likely walkers everywhere, stumbling around until they find themselves a fallen deer. At least they’re loud as shit, so he can hear them comin’. At least they can’t climb trees.

 

            Daryl hears the sound of Shane’s loud footsteps come closer and closer, breaths huffing in the air. Fuckin’ idiot, with all his hot blood and giant feet, breaking twigs left and right. He’s going to bring a herd of walkers down on them one day, attracting those things with how _alive_ he is, all bunching muscles and heated breaths. Shane couldn’t be quiet if his life depended on it. Daryl might not have been in school for long, but he knows the type. Big, strong, football type. The type that’ll fuck your wife, if you’re gone for too long.

 

            Not all bad, he supposes. Shane _did_ risk his life to save Carl, but it might have been more a power play to win Lori back. And he came back without Otis too, a hard glint in his eyes that Daryl saw immediately, had seen in the eyes of some of the men Merle used to run with. Animal instincts, he can tell a killer for a killer. Right intentions don’t mean shit.

 

            Daryl walks a little further and then stops, turning around so that he’s facing the way he came, the way that Shane is coming up now. And then just so that he doesn’t look like he’s standing there waiting for Shane to come up, he unzips his jeans and pisses into the dirt, shoulders hunched but eyes up and alert.

 

            “’chu doin’ out here at this hour,” Shane’s voice calls out, and Daryl can’t help the little twitch that runs through him, even though he’d been expecting Shane to speak in that loud, crass tone.

 

            “What’s it look like I’m doin’.”

 

            “You walk out a mile into the woods just so you can take a leak?”

 

            Daryl zips himself back up.

 

            “Fuck off, ain’t none of yer business how I piss.”

 

            “Is my business when you go wanderin’ off from the group.” Shane’s finally caught up with him and the fucker shines his flashlight directly into Daryl’s face, blinding him for a second before Daryl quickly looks away, seething. His eyes had just adjusted and now he’s half blind again in the utter darkness of the forest.

 

            “What d’you want.”

 

            Even in the dark, Daryl can see Shane tilt his head, lick his lips in that way he does, moon catching on the gleam of his dark eyes.

 

            “Wanna talk to ya.”

 

            Daryl waits, one hand tight around the strap of his crossbow. The smell hits him then, the faint honey burn of whiskey on Shane’s breath. Stupid bastard’s tipsy, but not drunk enough to be stumbling. He’s smarter than that.

 

            “What makes you think you can go hollerin’ at everyone, just ‘cuz you couldn’t find that little girl, huh? Think everyone owe you somethin’, just ‘cuz you bring back a string ‘a rabbits?”

 

            “You don’t know shit,” Daryl growls. The bark of the tree is rough against his back. Shane doesn’t know anything about Sophia, too stupid to see what was happenin’ to Carol ‘cuz of Ed, and Shane was supposed to be a fuckin’ man of the law. Daryl’s too angry to form words, hates himself because there are so many things he wants to say to Shane about how he’s tearing the group apart, how Dale doesn’t trust him, how everyone can see him ripping at the seams and bullying people into getting his way, but Daryl’s tongue lays thick and heavy in his mouth, and all he can muster is a vehement “fuck you.”  

 

            “What d’you give to this group, huh? You protect ‘em? Would you stick your own damn neck out there, for any of ‘em?” Shane growls, ignoring Daryl’s words.

 

            Shane is working himself up, chest rising and falling in quicker breaths, eyes flashing. He’s spoiling for a fight too, Daryl knows it, no other damn reason Shane would corner him into the woods on some dumbass excuse that Daryl hasn’t been doing enough, even if it’s true.

 

            “You got nothin’ now. Not Sophia, not Carol. So what are ya, huh? Good for nothin’ redneck piece’a shit. You like bein’ away from the group so much, why don’t you pack yer shit up and leave like your brother—“

 

            Daryl doesn’t know what happens, one minute he’s leaning against the tree and the next his fist is flying into Shane’s nose. He feels the sharp sting of the skin on his knuckles crack, just as he feels the give of cartilage under them and then there’s blood pouring down over Shane’s nose and lips, and the man is reeling from the punch.

 

            “Son ova bitch!” Shane howls, hands cupping his nose as his rifle falls from his shoulder to the soft leaves below. Daryl has a second to step back and then Shane is grabbing him around the waist and tackling him to the floor like a football lineman, his larger height and bulk pining Daryl underneath him.

 

            Daryl’s hands go up, using his forearms to block a hit from Shane’s fists and then he’s flipping them over, using momentum from his feet to kick out, grunting in pain as he feels the stitches in his side rip open.

 

            Daryl scrambles to his feet while Shane clambers to his, looking like a walker with blood dripping down his chin and all over his shirt, a crazed energy in his eyes. This isn’t just going to end here, Daryl realizes, when he catches the look in Shane’s eyes. Shane’s gonna do much worse than just beat him up some, he’s got a _look_ in his eyes that spells no good, so Daryl doesn't think, just trusts his own instincts and slings his crossbow over his shoulder and runs.

 

            Shane grabs his rifle and follows, and while Daryl is hopping over fallen branches Shane is plowing right through them like a ton truck, and suddenly there’s a click and the sound of the rifle cocking.

 

            Daryl freezes in his tracks.

 

            “Yeah, that’s right you fuckin’ take a step I’ll blow your head off.”

 

            Daryl doesn’t give a shit about that, highly doubts that Shane would be able to hit him in the darkness of a forest, but that’s not what he’s thinking about. Shane is stupid and crazy enough to fire a shot into the night and draw a horde of walkers down on them, on Carol, and Carl, and _Rick_ , and—

 

            “You shoot that rifle and the walkers’ll come by hundreds,” Daryl pants as Shane walks closer and closer, rifle up and steady the entire time.

 

            “Yeah? You think I won’t do it? I can protect them, Lori, Carl. We might lose a few people, but I’ll blame it on ya. Say I was tryin’ to stop ya from doin’ something stupid, and then you tried to kill me with my own gun, and then a walker got ya. Whose word you think they’ll listen to, hm?”

 

            Daryl feels a chill settle in the bottom of his stomach.

 

            “You think Rick don’t know what you are? How he looks at you, keeping you in his peripherals, like he don’t trust you around Lori, Carl? This whole time, you never had one goddamn job, just bandying along with our group for free protection and a free meal. Rick shoulda left you up there to rot, like your dear ol’ Merle.”

 

            It’s dark and he doesn’t see it in time, until the butt of the rifle connects with his cheek and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, pain exploding into fireworks behind his eyes as the rifle comes down again, hard on his sternum, Shane’s strength only checked at the last second to soften the blow. Daryl feels his physically heart stutter in his chest from the hit.

 

            Daryl rolls onto his front and tries to lean against the tree to get back to his feet, he’s gotta get back on his feet--

 

            His cheek throbs and he think Shane might have knocked a tooth loose but he doesn’t even have time to reach for the crossbow on his back before Shane is yanking him back down to the soft forest floor, heavy weight pressing hard onto Daryl’s back, a knee planted right in between Daryl’s shoulder blades. There’s a soft _clink_ of metal hitting metal and then two solid bands of steel are locking into place around his wrists.

 

            Daryl panics, yanking at the handcuffs but they won’t give at all, the dulled metal cutting into the skin on his wrist.

 

            “The fuck are you doing?!” he yells, rattled breaths whistling in and out of his nose. He acts on pure instinct now, like an animal about to be slaughtered and lashes out blindly, bucking Shane’s knee off his back and kicking in the dark. It connects with something and Daryl hears a pained _oof_ from Shane. Daryl rolls into a kneeling position and tries to get his feet under his body, fighting the tight pain in his chest, terror making his head buzz.

 

            Shane is up in a flash, and Daryl is strong but Shane is stronger, years of police training kicking into high gear as he trips Daryl with his own crossbow and Daryl falls hard, shoulder colliding against the ground with a thud.

 

            Shane’s got a hand wrapped around his ankle so Daryl kicks with his other foot, aiming for Shane’s face and catching him on his collarbone instead, making Shane howl with fury.

 

            Daryl scrambles away as fast as he can, hands straining behind his back but the handcuffs won’t give, and even if he was able to somehow get away from Shane he wouldn’t be able to fight off any walkers, not with his arms cuffed behind him like this.

 

            Shane seems to have the exact same thought because all of a sudden he’s grinning like a shark, teeth gleaming in the dark.

 

            “What’chu gonna do, huh? Karate kick walkers in the face? Keep runnin’ until you run into a hoard, pray it goes by quick?”

 

            Shane’s back on his feet, towering over Daryl still sitting on his ass, the wetness of the leaves soaking into his pants. There’s a crack of a twig and a dead-moan and both of them freeze, eyes flicking around to look for a walker. Daryl’s flashlight is on the ground, shining off into the distance but the walker could be coming from anywhere, there could be more.

 

            Shane’s harsh breathing is the only other sound in the forest. He licks his lips.

 

            “Could leave you out here, y’know.”

 

            “Like y’did to Otis?” Daryl hisses, watching Shane’s face twist into something uglier than it already was.

 

            “You don’t know shit,” Shane snarls, hands tightening around his rifle and this time Daryl braces himself for the blow before it comes.

 

            It doesn’t come.

 

            The rifle’s still in Shane hands and there’s a smirk on his face, pleased at Daryl’s hunched form. Daryl bristles; if Shane thinks he’s gonna go down easy, he’s got another think comin’.

 

            “You and me, we ain’t so different. People like Rick, he ain’t ever had his baby-white hands dirtied in his entire life. But you and me…”

 

            Shane crouches down so that he’s eye-level with Daryl, who takes the opportunity to gather all the spit in his mouth and hack it directly into Shane’s eye. He’s always had great aim, and this time is no different.

 

            Shane recoils, hand flying up to his face and Daryl pounces, moving forward to head-butt him hard. Their heads smack together and Shane falls backwards; the hit leaves Daryl himself reeling, but Shane’s a few paces back now and Daryl finally manages to get himself to his feet and start running, heading back towards camp. It’s his best bet—if he can get to Rick before Shane gets him, then Rick will know, he’ll know everything, he’ll be able to help—

 

            There’s a soft, familiar _pop_ and oh _fuck_ no—

 

            An arrow from Daryl’s crossbow goes whistling past his ear, embedding itself in the tree right next to him, and how dare Shane touch the crossbow, that piece of _shit—_

 

            There’s the sound of a dead-groan, and suddenly Daryl runs straight into the arms of a walker, bloody mouth agape and snapping. Up close, he can make out the yellow-whites of its blind eyes, black, bloodless hands scraping at Daryl’s neck—

 

            An arrow _thwangs_ and Daryl instinctively ducks his head, right in time for the arrow to pierce the walker through the skull. Shane is close, then, to have actually hit his target.

 

            “’less you want one of your bolts in ya, I’d quit fuckin’ runnin’.”

 

            Daryl trips backwards away from the walker, hands clammy and cold where they’re still tucked tight against the small of his back.

 

            The moonlight catches on a glint of silver at Shane’s belt—it’s the keys to the cuffs, looped through the belt loops. If Daryl could just distract him enough, or maybe knock him unconscious he could get to them.

 

            Shane’s still got the crossbow up and pointed at Daryl’s head, and his form is clumsy, elbow cocked out too far and the sights not lined up properly with his eye but at this distance, the bolt would rip a gigantic hole through Daryl’s abdomen, and Daryl doesn’t doubt for a second that Shane could, _would_ get away with killing him. Rick would believe it if Shane told him there were fuckin’ unicorns rainin’ down from the sky.

 

            “Pull the trigger if yer gonna,” Daryl spits, “I ain’t gonna beg ya.”

 

            He never thought it would end like this, going out with his own crossbow pointed in between his eyes. This is better than getting eaten by walkers, or dying in some ditch. Or drinking himself to death like his old pa did. None of them will remember him anyway, maybe Carol, maybe Rick, but ain’t none of them gonna last long enough for it to matter. They don’t give a shit about him anyway, some worthless redneck they accidentally adopted like a stray dog, too feral to tame, no family or friends to call his own.

 

            “Nah, ain’t gonna kill you. That’s too easy,” Shane says, quiet.

 

            The cuffs are too tight; Daryl’s fingers are cold, starting to go numb. He hopes that whatever dumbass punishment Shane’s about to dole out won’t take long.

 

            Shane’s head tilts a little, sizing him up. Daryl tries to hold still under his gaze. He’s had a lifetime of being quiet, hiding in small spaces, holding his breath so his Pa couldn’t find him, waiting until the danger passed. Except Shane’s not drunk, just buzzed, and his calculating eyes are bright with adrenaline, and he’s a hell of a lot smarter than Daryl’s old Pa ever was. Daryl tries to swallow around his dry throat.

 

            Shane stares, tongue flicking out over his cracked and bloody lips. Then he seems to make up his mind, turning and hanging the crossbow on a tree limb behind him, taking off his utility belt too, with his gun and the keys to the cuffs, and stringing it over the same branch. He pauses, then pulls something out from the belt. Daryl catches a sharp glint of silver.

 

            Fine, if Shane wants to slice him up, show him who’s boss, fine. Daryl’s been cut up plenty before, and he survived, so he can do it again.

 

            Shane walks towards him, slow and steady, whips a rag out of his pocket as he does.

 

            “Open,” Shane demands when he’s standing an arm’s length away.

 

            Daryl keeps his jaws locked tight. The rag is filthy, soaked through with walker blood and gun grease, he ain’t about to take that shit in his mouth.

 

            Suddenly Shane is stalking forward with speed, pinning Daryl’s back against the tree. Daryl instinctively jerks a knee up, trying to get Shane in the groin but Shane’s prepared for it, kicking Daryl’s leg out from underneath his body and Daryl crashes down onto one knee, grunting in pain. Shane grabs Daryl by the hair and slam his head against the tree once, twice, before forcefully shoving the disgusting rag into Daryl’s mouth. Daryl gags at the taste, tries to spit it out but it’s pushed too far in, choking him, and his mouth is too dry. His head pounds, nostrils flaring as he tries to draw in a breath and tastes gun metal, blood, and dirt.

 

            Wildly, Daryl sees the image of himself as a walker, eyes forever open and milky white, stumbling around with his dead walker hands still cuffed behind his back.

 

            No, he’s going to make it out of this. He’ll take whatever Shane does to him, he’ll heal, and one day he’ll kill the motherfucker.

 

            He focuses on breathing through his nose, pacing his breaths because he knows he’s gonna accidentally start holding his breath once Shane starts using the knife, and then he’ll pass out, and then he’ll be eaten by the walkers.

 

            The ground is solid and cold against his knees. Even the crickets aren’t chirping anymore, nothing but both of their harsh breaths, Daryl’s uneven and quick, Shane’s loud and deep, sounding in the night.

 

            Daryl squints in the dark, trying to make out the type of knife in Shane’s hand. It’s single edged, smooth at the top and serrated near the bottom. It’s not going to leave clean exit wounds--if Shane stabs him too deep with it, the serrated edges are going to tear his skin and muscles apart, recovering is going to take too long, he won’t be able to fight walkers for weeks. He’ll be useless, Rick will kick him out of the group. The thought alone is scarier than the pain he knows is about to come.

 

            Daryl feels his heart pound in his temple.

 

            He tries to say something, he doesn’t know what, maybe to tell Shane to snap out of it, tell Shane to stop being batshit crazy, apologize, _something_. Shane steps closer so moonlight spills over his shoulder and Daryl’s eyes catch on the unmistakable bulge in Shane’s pants.

 

 _Sick fuck_ , Shane’s getting off on seeing him like this. Or maybe it’s from the adrenaline, the heat of their fighting, the balmy evening even though it’s nearing winter. It could be anything, could _mean_ anything, doesn’t mean that Shane is gonna...

 

            Shane catches the direction of his glance, and then a smirk is writing itself onto his face, eyebrows rising high in disbelief.

 

            “Shit,” Shane laughs, teeth painted red with blood. Shane stabs the knife into the tree, right above Daryl’s head. Daryl can feel his lower back aching from sitting on his knees for so long and trying to hold himself still.  

 

            “Shit. I get it now.”

 

            Daryl feels blood rush into his cheeks, face heating under Shane’s leering gaze. It’s not, it’s _not,_ he ain’t no fuckin’ faggot, he ain’t _nothin’_. Daryl growls from behind the makeshift gag, trying to spew as much hate and venom as he can at Shane through a glare. He blinks away blood from a cut above his eyebrow.  

 

            “Who is it, huh? You gay for me, Dixon? Or Glenn? Or…Rick? Rick…you ain’t said a bad word toward him since the quarry. Followin’ him, followin’ his orders to a tee like a loyal dog, and he’s your master,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Shit, I get it. Somethin’ about that man, just a natural born leader. Make everyone wanna fall to their knees at his fuckin’ boots, but only Lori gets to do that now.”

 

            Shane turns away, spitting into the dirt next to Daryl’s foot.

 

            “She used to look at me like that, the way she looks at Rick now. Like you look at Rick. I saved her life, her and Carl’s. And how’s she repay me, huh? Won’t even, won’t even let me look at her,” Shane’s voice cracks and he swallows compulsively, “and all’s the while I can see her stomach growin’. My child, _my_ child, not Rick’s. And she won’t even…”

 

            Shane trails off, one hand balling tight into a fist, the other tightening around the handle of the blade. This isn’t about him, about Shane having a beef with him. It’s about Shane needing someone to rip apart, ‘cuz he can’t do it to Rick, and the next best thing is Daryl.

 

            Shane looks back, eyes sparking with anger, raising his arm. Daryl flinches, bracing for a punch but Shane just reaches up and yanks the knife out from the tree.

 

            “Never took you fer a fag. But maybe I jus’ couldn’t see, what with Merle talkin’ bout pussies all the time. Talk a big talk, but you din’t ever walk the walk, did ya?”

 

            Daryl can read wild animals and that makes Shane an open book, but knowing what’s about to happen next doesn’t make it any easier.

           

            One hand still holding the knife, Shane grasps Daryl by the hair and tosses him face-first to the ground, mashing the side of his face into the damp leaves and grass. He struggles against it, bucks up and tries to get some leverage. Shane drops his entire weight on the small of Daryl’s back, pinning him to the ground.

 

             Daryl feels a rough hand grope around to his front and grab too high on his stomach and then scratch down over his hipbones until it’s cupped around his dick, squeezing punishingly until Daryl sees stars flash across his vision, his yells muffled by the gag. He tries to squirm away but all 200 pounds of Shane is bearing down, crushing his rib cage so he can’t even get a fuckin’ breath in—

 

            “You like this? Gonna rut your fuckin’ dick in the leaves ‘til you come with my cock in ya? Probably used to this, huh, livin’ in the woods like wolves. Didya take your girls out into the woods, and fuck ‘em in the dirt? Fuckin’ trailer trash,” Shane grinds out, one hand holding tight to the cuffs around Daryl’s wrists while the other hand grinds on Daryl’s dick through his clothes. The knife sits forgotten in the leaves, not a foot away from Daryl’s head, but even if he wanted to grab it he wouldn’t be able to, not with his hands bound behind his back.

 

            Daryl can’t breathe, can’t think through the fog of panic clouding his mind. His fingers scrabble for purchase against where they’re trapped, something, _anything_ to grab on to, but Shane catches on quick and cinches the cuffs tighter, hanging on to the short chain holding the two sections together.

 

            Shane’s other hand works at the button of Daryl’s jeans and pulls them down, dragging at the tight waistband until they’ve been pulled down to his upper thighs and Daryl can feel the cold night air against his bare ass.

 

            Shane whistles low and dirty.

 

            “You go commando? Fuckin’ slut,” Shane laughs, wrenching hard on the handcuffs. Daryl gasps, shoulder muscles twinging in protest; if Shane pulls any harder he’s gonna to pop Daryl’s shoulder straight out of the socket.

 

            Daryl tries to speak through the gag, but all he can manage is a ragged groan, mouth stuffed full of cotton and blocking his airway. He’s going to die, he’s going to die like this, die with his pants around his ankles, bleedin’ from his ass and walkers picking over his bones.

 

            _Don’t be such a puss, baby brother. You gonna let yourself go like this? Nobody to carry on the good Dixon name?_

 

            Shane’s heated palm grabs onto Daryl’s waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there and Daryl flinches with his whole body, the touch makes him want to throw up, he hasn’t been touched there since, since—

 

            Shane sinks his nails into the thin skin covering Daryl’s hip bones, rutting hard against his ass. Through the rough chafe of Shane’s jeans Daryl can feel his dick, hard and heavy. Daryl’s wrists are wet with blood, and that’s what he focuses on, narrowing his world down to the sharp pinching in his wrists, the rawness of the cuffs chafing and rubbing them raw. Above him Shane pants out a litany of curses and half-coherent oaths.

 

            “Y’hear me? We don’t need your filth around these people, these _good_ people,” Shane hisses, and for one hysterical moment Daryl wants to laugh, wants to spit, “I fucking know that you shithead,” but he chokes on the words, reminding him to suck in a labored breath through his nose. Dark spots dance at the edge of his vision.

 

            Somewhere above him he feels the clink of Shane’s belt and a zip being undone.

 

            He bucks out of instinct, an animalistic urge to _run, get away,_ an instinct he’s developed whenever he’s heard those two noises, either separately or together, trained into him from decades of remembered hurt and terror at the hands of people like Shane, like people who did what Shane was about to do, and he thinks maybe he’d be used to it by now, would be able to see someone for who they were before they inevitably cornered him, chained him up, beat him, forced him, but he still feels useless adrenaline coursing through his veins, fight or flight kicking in high gear but no option to do either.

 

            His thrashing doesn’t do anything to Shane except make him chuckle, seat himself firmer on Daryl’s lower back and bracket Daryl’s slim hips with Shane’s strong thighs trapping him. Shane pushes his hand under Daryl’s sweat soaked shirt and rakes his nails down the uneven plane of Daryl’s scarred back.

 

            Daryl can’t even feel the brunt of the pain, the skin on his back too gnarled and ridged from poorly healed wounds, but Shane dragging his nails rips them all open again, and now he _knows_ , now Shane can feel his weakness, can feel the evidence of how Daryl used to be too weak to fight off people who wanted to hurt him. How he still _is_ too weak.

 

            “This ain’t your first rodeo, is it?’ Shane coos, hand moving up to wrap around Daryl’s neck from the back. The other is still holding the chain between the cuffs, pulling on them every time he grinds down against Daryl’s ass and he’s gotta get free, now, before Shane does anything else, before Shane _breaks_ him.

 

            Daryl kicks back, hoping that it’ll catch Shane in the back, maybe hit his spine, but Shane catches on before he can and this time there’s no laughter in his voice.

 

            “Y’just don’t give up, do ya?” Shane growls and out of the corner of his eye Daryl catches the glint of the knife and then there’s agony exploding from his thigh.

 

            He screams into the gag, vision clouding with tears as everything whites out for a few seconds, nothing but the sharp pain of the blade _in_ his leg, he can feel the edges tear into the surrounding muscle. Shane must have struck an artery, _must_ have, he can feel blood seeping out of the wound. He sobs around the gag, and his only thought is _stop, stop, stop_.

 

            “Din’t have to be like this, Daryl. Coulda made it easy on yourself, but that’s what Dixons gotta do, right? Make everyone’s lives harder? Piss everyone off?” Daryl vaguely registers fabric shifting above him, but the feel of Shane’s hard length, his cock full and thick, resting on his ass, Shane’s thick fingers touching him _there._ Daryl jerks at the touch, a ragged moan tearing it’s way out of his throat. The pad of Shane’s finger is rough, nail catching against sensitive skin.

 

            “Fuck,” Shane groans, lets go of the chain between the cuffs so he can spit into his palm and rub at himself, spitting again before he lines himself up with Daryl’s hole.

 

            “Shit…clenched so tight, like a fuckin’ virgin on prom night,” Shane laughs, pressing the head of his cock at Daryl’s entrance. Daryl whimpers into the ground, eyes squeezed shut and for the moment he’s grateful for the distraction of the knife in his leg, sidetracking the pain of Shane trying to force himself into Daryl’s body.

 

            Daryl shudders, keening as Shane pulls the head of his dick back out, grumbling, “this ain’t fun for me, with you clamped like you got a stick up your ass.” Suddenly the knife in his leg judders, Shane’s hand gripping the handle hard, and Daryl bawls into the gag, _no, no!_ because the second Shane pulls the blade out he’s going to bleed out, the blade’ll rip out muscle with it, no, he wouldn’t be that cruel, he wouldn’t—

 

            “Relax, relax,” Shane soothes, rubbing his hand up and down Daryl’s flank like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “Only gonna borrow some blood, yeah?” Daryl gags back vomit because Shane’s swiping sticky-wet blood off his leg wound and smearing it against his hole, pushing a thick finger in and ignoring the natural resistance of Daryl’s body, pushing past the tight rings of muscle.

 

            “Shhh…shhhh…” Shane whispers, dropping his head down and he places a soft mocking kiss at the base of Daryl’s neck. Daryl gags, tasting acid in the back of his throat. He’d rather have Shane angry again, slicing at him with the knife than dragging it out like this, murmuring sickly-sweet into his ear, trying to make Daryl _enjoy_ this.

 

            Shane spits again, and Daryl feels the disgusting wetness slide down his crack before Shane massages it into his hole, thrusting in and out a few times with his finger. He pulls at the rim and spits, sticking another finger in and stretching him open.

 

            “Just like a girl, huh? Gotta get you ready and shit, treat you kind so I can fit myself in ya, get some sugar back,” Shane says breathlessly, lining himself up once more and this time, despite Daryl trying to keep him out Shane pushes in, and in.

 

            Daryl can’t breathe, feels like he’s being split open with a baseball bat, and it _hurts_ , like his nerve endings are being lit on fire and the push is dry and painful but Shane is unrelenting, shoving in with firm thrusts until Daryl feels like he’s going to break in two.

 

            Daryl unconsciously spreads his legs wider, stretches his back, tries to make more room in his body just so that he can get a breath in, head buzzing from the unbearable stretch, his body putting up more resistance instinctually. He tries to breath in through his nose and gets a throat full of snot, small whimpers making their way out of his throat, dirt sticking to the sweat and reflex tears on his face.

 

            “Like a bitch in heat, face down ass up, spreading yourself for me,” Shane says, voice low and graveled with lust and in the next thrust he buries himself to the hilt. Daryl screams, shoulders shaking with the effort of not passing out, inner muscles spasming around the intrusion. It’s easier, after that, when Shane begins to fuck in earnest, putting his weight behind his thrusts because the slide is easier--Daryl must have started bleeding. Each push and pull is agony, burning his insides, spikes of pain shooting up and down his spine and jarring him into the ground.

 

            So he brings himself away, thinks about something else, anything else. Thinks about the way the sun dapples the leaves after an afternoon rain, thinks about the way cool beer feels sliding down his throat, thinks about the roaring strength of Merle’s motorcycle underneath his hands, thinks about a kind smile and careful hands—

 

            “S’like fuckin’ a plank of wood, _move,_ yapiece ‘a shit, _”_ Shane snarls, and Daryl feels the knife being yanked at, ripping his leg open so he panics and moves, tries to twist his hips to meet Shane’s punishing thrusts, weakly clenches around Shane’s cock pounding into him to try and make this be over sooner. Shane brings a hand back down around the back of Daryl’s neck and uses it as leverage to fuck him deeper.

 

            It’s enough for Shane to groan loud, dropping one hand to grip tight around Daryl’s hip and fuck him relentlessly, sweat pouring off both of them. The black spots in Daryl’s vision close in, he’s suffocating, and the rush towards darkness is almost a relief. It’ll be over, soon.

 

            Abruptly Shane slows his thrusts and _thank God…_

 

            “Fuck…,” Shane moans, pulling out and pushing back in, blood slicking the way. “Fuck…don’t wanna come too soon. Not gonna lie to ya, Dixon, I’m likin’ the view. Ya could be one of those chicks with the short hair… small tits, tiny little ass,” Shane groans, and Daryl trembles and twitches underneath him, each drag like needles stabbing into his abused hole. He feels a sharp slap on his ass and he tenses reflexively, feeling every inch of Shane in him.

 

            Daryl focuses, past all the other sensations in his body, to the wound in his leg, the acute pain of being stabbed, to just focus on that pain instead of everything else he’s feeling.

 

            “Fuck, ya like that?” Shane huffs, slapping his ass again and the sting of it is enough to drag Daryl fully back into his body and howl into the gag, scrabbling against the dirt.

 

            Shane mutters a litany of curses, pulling out and slamming back in each time, buried balls deep in Daryl, fingernails leaving bloody crescents behind on Daryl’s hips. He speeds up again, setting a brutal pace.

 

            “Shit,” Shane moans and buries in to the hilt, gasping through his release. He collapses on top of Daryl, crushing him to the floor. For a few seconds there is nothing but darkness, then Shane is fisting his hand in Daryl’s short hair and pulling him up and off the ground, tugging until Daryl is all the way to a kneeling position, hands still bound behind his back.

 

            Daryl blinks his way back into consciousness, only vaguely aware of what a mess he must look, face streaked with tears and dirt and snot, mouth busted wide open around the gag, knees spread far apart and ass loose and dripping blood and Shane’s come onto the leaves. Shane meets his eyes and shudders, licks his lips in the way that he does, cocks his head to the side and stares Daryl up and down, like he’s fuckin’ _admiring_ the shit he’s done to him.

 

            And then out of the corner of his eye, Daryl sees it, a silhouette moving, faltering steps, the faint rotten stench of a walker—it’s coming up fast, coming up behind Shane.

 

            Shane catches the stiffening of Daryl’s shoulders, the way his eyes widen imperceptibly and focused on something just over his shoulder—

 

            The walker makes a grab for Shane’s arm, teeth just grazing the cotton.

 

Shane doesn’t think, just makes a dive towards Daryl, barreling him over and jerking the knife out of his leg and sticking it into the walker’s head.

 

            Even muffled behind the gag he hears Daryl scream bloody murder, body curling in on itself, tucking his knees in close to his chest, chest heaving with the effort to breathe through the gag, shaking violently from head to toe. They’re in danger, there could be more walkers, Shane realizes, and hurriedly pushes the post-sex daze from his mind.

 

            The world is spinning, ground tilting unsteadily underneath him, even though he’s barely moving. Daryl blinks rapidly, trying to focus on something, anything past the consuming pain in his leg. He feels the rag being whipped out of his mouth and he gasps and gasps in air like he’s drowning, ribs protesting, everywhere hurting but he can breathe a little, _finally._ The quench of air distracts, just enough, from the blinding agony of what must be a gaping hole in his leg.

 

            There’s a tight pressure on his leg, Shane tying a knot with the rag right above the wound, Shane’s touching him again, tugging at the band of his jeans, and _god_ , _no_ …

 

            But he’s pulling them up, not down, cursing the whole time, the words swimming in and out of Daryl’s comprehension.

 

            “Lift…hips…get…fuckin’ pants on….gotta go…walkers…shit!”

 

            Shane’s wrist brushes his dick and Daryl flinches away from the touch so forcefully he falls back to the ground. Shane hisses in frustration, hands fumbling at his utility belt hanging on the tree to grab the keys to the cuffs.

 

            In a minute they’re uncuffed, falling away from Daryl’s bloody wrists and Shane’s pocketing them like nothing’s happened. He’s zipped back up, the only suggestion of foulplay are a few spots of blood on the front of his pants, some new bruises adorning his face, but his clothes are on straight and his hair is no messier than it was before he came into the woods.

 

            Daryl wonders what he looks like, then tries hard not to think about it. He feels blood drip down his wrists and fingertips.

 

            “We gotta move,” Shane says, not even looking at him as he buckles his belt back on and slips the knife into its holster. Daryl stays kneeling on the ground, pants half done up, shirt rucked up around his chest.

 

            Under the faint glow of their dying flashlights and moonlight filtering in through the trees, Shane catches the sight of Daryl entirely; the scars on Daryl’s back again, stark and pale against the rest of his tan skin, blood encircling his wrists, a mixture of fluids oozing out of him and running down his thighs. The scars on his back are deep and nasty looking, some of them old enough to have been put there when he was young, probably no more than a boy. Out of nowhere, Shane feels his heart clench, tastes bitterness on his tongue as he watches Daryl lift a trembling hand and swipe his wrist across his eyes, wiping away sweat and tears. In a few more seconds he’s back on his feet, albeit unsteadily leaning against the tree behind him.

 

            “We gotta move,” Shane grits out, trying not to feel the wetness on his dick, how good it felt to have Daryl pinned, hear his quiet cries and whimpers as Shane had fucked him.

 

            Daryl nods once, fast, to show he understands and then he’s bent over double, throwing up, and there’s so little that comes up, just a bit of water and rabbit stew, but he keeps retching, dry heaving like his body’s trying to turn itself inside out. It goes on forever, long enough that Shane’s skin crawls with the feeling that there has to be another walker around—sure enough, there’s one coming up right behind the tree but Daryl sees it first, and with barely a grunt grabs the walker by its sunken head and slams it against the tree, hard enough that the skull shatters and the brains splatter against the trunk.

 

            Quiet, Daryl slowly, painfully, tugs his shirt back down, fixes the button and zip on his pants. His legs are quivering so bad Shane can see them from where he’s standing, and he doubts that Daryl’s going to make it back to camp, one entire leg of his pants painted dark with blood from the knife wound.

 

            “Lemme help you back,” Shane says, quiet.

 

            “Fuck you,” Daryl says just as quiet because he can’t even muster the energy to put any heat into the words. He doesn’t take one step forward before he’s falling to the ground, wounded leg collapsing underneath his weight. He’s so tired, he thinks that it might just be okay to lay here for a while, to fall asleep.

 

_Get up, baby brother. This isn’t where it ends._

 

            “Fuck your pride, Dixon, you wanna die out here, s’fine by me,” Shane retorts, because Daryl’s proud but he isn’t stupid. Shane turns around, like he’s really preparing to head back to camp alone. Daryl feels panic wind tight around his throat again, that Shane’ll leave him here, not even give him a courtesy bullet to the head when the time comes. Fuck Shane, _fuck_ Shane, for making him beg like this.  

 

            “Wait…” Daryl murmurs.

 

            “Wait, what?”

 

            “Wait…please,” Daryl grits out. The words leave him drained and like that, the fight leaks out of him like hot air from a balloon.

 

            Shane pulls him to his feet and slings Daryl’s arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him, half-dragging him along. Daryl’s too tired, body too exhausted to do much more than shudder at the full body contact, at the heat of Shane’s side pressing against his own. He’ll deal with it later, deal with the fear later, now they just need to be safe.

 

            It’s still dark out when they clear the edge of the forest, the moon only just beginning its descent, the sky lightening incrementally. Daryl can’t even limp, can’t even do anything except let Shane drag his dead weight around until they’ve made it back to his shitty little tent on the outskirts of camp.

 

            Shane peers at him with narrowed eyes.

 

            “You gonna die and turn into a walker on us?” Shane says, voice pitched low so it won’t carry back to the others, back to their quiet family of survivors sleeping soundly in their tents.

 

            So what’s Shane gonna do if he does? Would serve him right, and for a delirious second Daryl hopes he dies and turns into a fuckin’ walker right there and then so he can go and rip Shane to pieces. But there’s the terrifying thought that if he says yes, that Shane’ll go and wake Herschel, will wake everyone in camp, make up some fabricated story about how Daryl and him were chasing someone they saw, a thief. They’ll take one look at Daryl and think he’s weak, with his limp, the bruises all over his body, they’ll know he ain’t shit, can’t protect anyone, not even himself, worth a damn.

 

            And worse, they’ll believe Shane, won’t even question him, because Shane Walsh is an Officer of the Law, and no one’ll even think twice to look at the cuff marks that feel burned into Daryl’s wrists. Shane’s word, Rick’s word, that’s the group’s creed. It’s been proven often enough that he doesn’t need to see it play out again, so he shakes his head, world slanting nauseatingly as he does.

 

            “Leave me ‘lone,” Daryl rasps, the words garbled like gravel in his throat from screaming earlier. He hurts everywhere; he’s pretty sure some of his ribs are cracked, on top of everything else, and all he can think about is sleeping for the next hundred years. Undoubtedly he’ll have to get up and face them eventually, but by then Shane’ll have made up a good cock and bull story about them facing off in the woods or some shit, and all Daryl will have to do is nod his head along to it, and that’ll be that, no questions asked about Shane’s broken nose, or Daryl’s limp that has just as much to do with his aching ass as the knife wound.

 

            “Okay…okay,” Shane says. He walks away without glancing back. Daryl watches his retreating form, the muscles in his back bunching and moving with ease as he struts his way back over to the group and ducks into his tent, right next to Rick’s. Finally out of sight, Daryl forces himself to let go of the breath he’d been holding since what’s felt like forever, and let’s himself shake apart, lets the panic course through his veins and run its course.

 

            He does the only thing he can, and crawls back into his tent to wait for sleep to claim him.

 

            It doesn’t come ‘til morning.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I should note that anal sex without lube is a v bad idea, and spit is never the answer...like, never. 
> 
> Second, I actually think Shane is a pretty swell guy, but that CDC scene really threw me for a loop and this idea wouldn't leave my head. I've been marathoning TWD for the past weeks, and I'm (almost) caught up to season 6! This is my first time writing something so dark, and not gonna lie I had fun sitting there thinking "what are some ways I can make it even worse for Daryl." 
> 
> I am considering doing a follow up fic of Rick eventually finding out about what happened, and some good ol' hurt/comfort between Rick and Daryl, set during the prison. Depends on the feedback I get on this one, I guess! ;) 
> 
> Third, this is unbeta-ed, all mistakes are mine, so please point out typos so I'm not face-palming as I endlessly catch mistakes. 
> 
> And finally, the title is lyrics from the most perfect and fitting song for this pairing, Hatefuck - The Bravery.


End file.
